


Fast Burn, Slow Burn

by williamTspears



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: But he is there nonetheless, Ciel's appearance is as brief as his lifespan I'm sorry to say, Events of season 2 do not exist in this verse, M/M, Mixed pronouns for Grell depending on narrator character, Rating may change but is there as a precaution, Skippable sex scenes will be part of the plan, Slow Burn, So they get their own chapter, animeverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamTspears/pseuds/williamTspears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Undertaker agrees to help Dispatch with the supernatural London fires, all thanks to "that fault-finder, Will or whatever his name is...", and finds fault in himself for allowing things to progress afterwards. Further... and further... and further...</p><p>The animeverse UTWill fic I've been meaning to write for some time, an exploration of the dynamic we were presented for the two of them in the latter half of season one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rerecruited

The Undertaker did not consider himself a hero, or anything of the like. Certainly not. He had retired some time ago, in 1796 or so. Shortly after the Antoinette case, it was, and... that other assignment. He had retired peacefully, really, as peacefully as they reapers could. He'd kept his scythe, lost his glasses in the process (couldn't have kept those anyway, but it would've been a bit nicer if he hadn't had his head near cleaved in half at the same time), and defected to these charming slums. They had tried to stop him leaving, he knew they would, but once he was out, it all died down. He was left for dead, really, and while they hadn't tried to monitor him he was aware they had an idea of where he had gone. Only because, a whole five years later, he had received a letter notifying him that - in full seriousness - he had "neglected to satisfactorily upkeep" the upper-level flat he had been assigned in their realm and it would now be passed on to another reaper... Were he to not appeal at a hearing, which was up to him to arrange the date for. He'd laughed, really, he'd laughed a lot at that.

But that was Dispatch. He hadn't attended any hearings of any kind, obviously. As if he would, absurd as that notion was. But that notice had done him good. He knew they knew where he was, still. It was enough to make any man paranoid. But if they were really so bothered about him, he wouldn't still be living. He'd considered it a warning, but not a threat. Still did. Especially since William had... been William.

William T. Spears... the impossibly fussy, sour lemon of a man. Undertaker had always considered, now and again, sticking his nose where he knew it oughtn't be. Curiosity was his primary drive, and there was a lot left unexplored in the realm of death. Or un-death, as it were. But... he'd never really taken the bait. Just entertained the idea. How he could do this, how he might attempt that, what sort of result he might get. He'd kept himself entertained with record books from the Library, instead. He had been compelled... after a point... to stay away from anything which might make him a true enemy of Dispatch. That he had gone from wary recluse to willing visitor was nothing short of a miracle in itself, and for that... he supposed he had to thank William. That ruddy lemon man.

He had turned up, just a little over fifty years ago, to inform Undertaker that he was _"still entitled"_ to certain benefits as a _"legally retired veteran"_. That was certainly news. News to William was that Undertaker had not been informed of any such benefits in the first place, as he had only been acting out his duties as London Branch's brand new manager. Apparently, each time management shifted, they were supposed to reassure the "legally retired veterans" that their compensation would not halt, and introduce themselves, so any retired reaper would be aware of the change.

-

"Usually," William told him, already clearly a man comprised of all nerves and ice. "The protocol is that we send a letter. However, that seemed... discourteous, considering your standing, sir."

"...And what standing might tha~t be...?" he smiled in return, tone light and teasing, as if his ignorance was feigned.

"Well, you are the man who handled Robin Hood..." William frowned.

So Dispatch had not stripped him from their history books, scandalised by his desertion. No, it seemed they had kept his image alive and well... or this man was just particularly odd and well-versed in Undertaker's business. The former more likely than the latter, though he could never be sure. This was all quite strange, even if Spears looked just as unsure and taken aback as he felt with a management level reaper simply turning up to offer him goodies for surviving his "lawful retirement to veteranhood". He didn't trust the situation any more than he had expected it.

"So as I was saying," William continued after a moment. "Legally retired veterans are entitled to continued access to Dispatch facilities, and a small pension, for aid-"

"I heard ye," Undertaker cut in. "I don't need any pension, I got everything set up myself already."

"...I understand. And the access to Dispatch?"

"...I'll think on that part," he replied. It certainly was something to think on. He didn't have much use for any of those stifling offices, but there was more than that to their realm. He'd have to test the waters, ensure this wasn't a trap, and stay on his guard. There be enemy territory, after all, and his face bore the marks to prove it. "Come back in a month, maybe~," he said to William. "I'll tell y' then."

"...I understand," William said again. "Then, I'll take my leave. Have a good evening, sir."

Undertaker nodded as the man left the shop, remaining where he was for some time after, deep in thought and still facing the door through which William had left.

-

He wasn't sure if telling William to come back had been such a wise choice. He could have found some way to navigate his way into having library access without the man, surely... And just as he himself had a habit of sticking his nose where it oughtn't be, that starched shirt mannequin was even worse. Nosy, fussy, chronically correcting others in the harshest way possible, and a total nil score in any hint of a sense of humour. Absolutely unbearable. But he _had_ brought that initial news.

Undertaker had William explain the parameters of any possible sojourns to Dispatch during that visit a month later. He still didn't accept the offer immediately, preferring to leave it open ended. In fact, he had not made contact again with William after that, much preferring to keep his distance from the man. Rarely, they had crossed paths in the lobby of the library, but they had not spoken again. Entering Dispatch after desertion felt a bit like handing himself over as a lamb for slaughter, but... he had been left alone, and he'd come across no trouble for his travels. Such, he had developed a small, rotating collection of his favourite record books. They were all he ever visited for, as he'd no need for anything else. And truly, he'd had no trouble from it, or from Dispatch, but... from William T. Spears. Pesky, pesky...

It was the eve after the angel had entered the library, and he found himself once more with Mr Spears standing in his shop, along with three others. Undertaker had been focused on the little Earl primarily, until he and his muzzled dog of a butler had left the establishment. This left him with William and the redhead. It was a bizarre contrast, really. There was William, stiff as a peg, and next to Undertaker, his coworker, flashy and come-hither, clearly trying to catch his attention after having seen his face in the Library earlier that day.

Undertaker wasn't interested in any molly of this sort, who brushed others off based on their first appearances and clearly valued a face more than personal achievement. Asides, he'd seen what this one could do, preying on the working women who made their home in East End just the same as he did. _And_ he had seen firsthand what this one could do to those who did not remain up to strict standard and fell to sentiment... No thank you, please. He valued spontaneity, but not reckless and wanton violence for the sake of violence. He wouldn't be opposed to attempting to taunt or treat this oversexual mess if it suited his goals, but as he'd no current need for it... he would leave this particular thread hanging in the lurch.  
And this odd communion was all fine and well, he didn't mind guests, as strange as these two were, but...

"Grelle, if you don't mind, I need to speak with the Undertaker alone. I do mean _alone,_ " William spoke, eyes flicking to the elder for a moment before returning to his colleague. "I am aware that I am not the head of this shop, but I am your manager, and this is Dispatch business."

Undertaker's smile thinned slightly at this, heart lurching into his throat at the bare hint of danger. Surely, not after all these years in peace...? Retribution delivered through this particular reaper?

Unless they were trying to guilt him into quick submission, somehow, but that wouldn't work, no no...

"Please, Will," Grelle crooned, standing to step over and place gloved hands on the manager's shoulder. "You can't just send me away from the two most handsome men I've ever met and expect me to agree. Unless you're _jealous,_ of course-"

"Leave," William snapped, scythe materialising to serve the other a firm, dull blow to the knee. Grelle squeaked in pain and skittered out with a girlish wave.

Right near comedic, this duo was. Would be, if Undertaker could be sure he wasn't about to receive worse from that scythe himself. But if that were it, there'd be no sense in sending the backup out, would there? His smile remained frozen in place, but behind his fringe his eyes had steeled. He did not dare blink, though he no longer relied on his sight, as William's focus returned to him.

"I must request a favour. I'd like you to temporarily return to your post."

Undertaker then did blink, slowly in non-response, smile fading slightly in confusion. Temporarily return? What? This was the opposite of what he had expected to hear from William, who was standing uncomfortably in wait of a response. When he did not receive one, he continued.

"You see, we are very understaffed at current and-"

"I'd prefer not," Undertaker said, finally. "What does the Council want with an old man like me anyhow~?" he queried sweetly. William paused at this, clearly hesitating.

"Actually, I have not spoken to them about your recruitment."

_Oh?_

"It's simply that we're about to experience one of the largest mass reapings this area has ever faced, and even with all staff mobilised, I don't believe it will be enough. The cause of death will be fire, but we cannot rule out supernatural or demonic involvement, and with our officers spread so thinly we cannot ensure that all souls will be duly accounted for," William explained, still standing with his half-finished tea. "That is why... I thought it might benefit us if you were to help. You _are_ the man who-"

"Alright, that's enough, no need t' start singing my praises... Dispatch is really that understaffed, eh?"

"As it stands, I believe most of us will have to work a forty-eight-hour shift to keep up. I am not certain about my own hours yet, in fact, and I'm not even supposed to be involved in field work. Honestly... The reap is supposed to last for three days, and as such..." he trailed off imploringly, cautiously sitting down on the lid of the nearest coffin.

So, it was just William, seeking out his help. Just William. He didn't want to go back there, and what of his scythe? They'd still want it returned, surely. But from the sounds of it, Will would be working right through those three full days, and even reapers weren't built for that sort of endurance. They needed to eat and sleep to keep up their energy, or they would crash and possibly become immobilised until they could be nursed back to coherent consciousness. That man may try to behave like a clockwork machine, but Undertaker knew well enough that even he wouldn't last like one when push came to shove. An impossible reap for a regular staff member, but just one more efficient helping hand could shave hours off of everyone else's work...

"You want me t' try working for two days straight?" Undertaker frowned. He still didn't want to return to Dispatch, but...

"No, of course not, nothing like that. Your shifts would be regular hours, three evenly over the three days. At least, that's my working of the numbers, as a volunteer you are within rights to refuse as many of those hours as you like. The... library fines you accumulated with your late returns can be waived, and I am willing to provide any other reasonable compensation, I-," William cut himself off, looking at the Undertaker with anxious concern.

He still didn't want to return to Dispatch, but... he felt... guilty, at the prospect of abandoning this man to an insurmountable task. That thought, the thought of a guilty conscience, rather scared him. It was not a possibility he wished to confront, and... it was a very confronting possibility. If William had just come at him with an attempted execution, this would all be so much bloody easier.

"Please, sir," William implored, and the Undertaker felt his insides curling into a thick, heavy lead ball in his chest.

"I want my scythe too, then. Unconditional ownership. That's all." Damn, damn, damn this. Damn William and damn himself. Damn that there was something he could actually milk out of it. Those fines wouldn't pay themselves otherwise.

William perked up in surprise, eyes wide and mouth opening in a small _o_ before he corrected himself. Had Spears not expected this to work? Why'd he even try for, then?

"Of course. That's all? Of course!" he repeated himself, very clearly shocked. "...Thank you."

"No need for thanks. Y'ought to finish that tea, by the way," he reminded William and smiled reflexively. "'M sure you've got somewhere better to be."

They did not speak much, after that, William drinking his now cool tea and heading on his way following an awkward farewell and more attempted thanks. Undertaker was once again left to sit and contemplate the doorway through which the manager had exited. He'd been living in peace, minding his own business, doing his own thing, and this stick in the mud just _had_ to come through and ruin it all. The Undertaker did not consider himself a hero, but this man certainly seemed to think he was...

The real question now was whether he was willing to let down an old customer.


	2. Re: Rerecruited

“So?” William prompted, arms folded behind his back as he watched the Undertaker slowly flip through the files he had prepared.

The stiff man had returned to the shop not long before the large reap was due to begin, bringing with him the full details which Dispatch members were entitled to receive. The fire would start outside of London proper, quickly moving towards the city to carve a path straight out of the sparsely populated countryside. It was a rapid, linear run of death that ignored topography, not a natural progression in any sense. William had been right to express concerns of supernatural involvement; he could only come to the same conclusion himself. The first few scattered deaths would also be, he noted, out towards the Phantomhive manor. Undertaker knew that the Earl and his dog were out of the country - he had his sources, after all – and as such it would be silly to browse the practically brimming death list he had been handed for a singular name that in all likelihood would not be there. No, no, instead...

“I’ve another term,” he said. “’Sides from the scythe and those fines. I want to know when the little Earl Phantomhive is due for our grand services.”

William frowned, thinking on what his response to this would be. It was fair enough. Reapers were not technically supposed to interfere when a demon took a contracted soul. Any human foolhardy enough to sell their soul was barred from Heaven’s gates, their fate predetermined by that single mistake. Pitiful. Crushing. A dull story that the once-legendary reaper was sick of hearing. He himself had once held no regard for the weight of a human life, his own life, and that was why he was still here, why they all were still here. Similar mistakes, different consequences. Loathe as he was of the circumstances he had brought upon himself, that kinf of end without hope for continuation, which was decided in a grasp for power, revenge, whatever… That was beyond stupidity. It was pathetic, and pathetically boring. But it was not his business to interfere, not his place. The soul could not be saved regardless, it was, again, barred from Heaven’s gates. He could do nothing but warn those who might choose that path or others that would lead to a bitter end, in hopes they would listen. Countless humans, countless souls, countless times he had warned the Earl and others like him. They never listened. The little Earl was not listening either, and willfully binding a collar of misfortune around his own neck.

But it was fair enough that William would be concerned he might interfere. He had hunted many a demon in his term as a Dispatch lackey, and he’d not regretted a single one of them; he still did not. He’d kill another. Each of them, though, had crossed a line and therefore crossed Dispatch. He had followed the rules, he did not interfere. It was not against their terms to kill a contracted demon, no, of course not. Just not a recommended course of action. Any reaper would have a go at a demon, provided it was opportune, that was simply the way things were. But a contracted soul’s date of death was always tied with the date of the contract’s completion. Undertaker was no longer an active reaper, he was not permitted to make a call on whether a human life was fit for extension, and he was not permitted to interfere. Even as his abilities were being ‘borrowed’ by William for this fire and he was temporarily returning to work, he was still required to seek clearance from higher ups if he desired to extend a life. He very much doubted it would happen, there were so few who ever qualified. The Earl was not one of those few. For all his acts on behalf of the Queen, he would soon be forgotten. He was a child with no future. The mortician recognised this well. And he recognised this was the cause of William’s current pause.

“His date of death has already been concluded,” William stated, gaze steady as Undertaker’s eyebrows rose slightly beneath his fringe.

“In France?” he asked, afraid to hear the response. Was it to be the last time he would see that child, when the boy had left his shop and the man before him had made his proposition?

“No. He is on our lists, and will die on the second evening of this fire. His cause of death is blood loss, he will arrive in London that same night. You will find it on the list I have given you in those files. While I trust your judgement, sir, I must warn that I would not recommend-”

“-Interfering?” he smirked, gleaning a thread of pleasure from Spears’ awkward glance and following fidgeting with his glasses. Going against someone he considered a superior was evidently not a comfortable prospect for this man. “I shan’t. Don’t worry yourself.”

The relief which sank through the man’s posture was equally entertaining as the flash of sheer awkwardness had been, and he snickered quietly.

So. The boy was now due, in such short time, with such a short life. He was not surprised. Merely… disappointed. But it was what it was, and it was not appropriate to mull in front of a guest (no matter how broody the guest was himself). Instead, his smile remained in place, close-lipped.

“Now, I’ve got a couple questions about this roster you’ve given me,” he started, tone uncharacteristically serious for his expression, flipping back a couple of pages to where his work assignment was laid out, a short set of nights in a row. “You said three shifts, and here it is, three shifts, but you’ve got me on full shifts when that fire doesn’t start until after sunset on the first, won’t cause any real spike in London’s numbers until the second, and then that third night after the fire’s already stopped. No problem with helping in the aftermath, I know a death doesn’t usually happen as quick as we’d like, but that first shift…”

“Well,” William started, nervous disposition sinking back into place. “As you’d know, there is also preparation to be done before a reap, paperwork-” he cut himself off when Undertaker scoffed. “However… I did say, and I have not changed my stance, that you may reject as many or as few of the hours I set. I will handle things, if you do not wish to.”

When Undertaker simply bowed his head and spread his hands apart in acquiescence, William nodded. “I will take care of the filing, then.”

Years as a reaper and years without glasses had left him with an acutely heightened sense of the energies around him. All reapers could sense the presence of souls, death, and demons, but not many could use that skill to guide their way in a fight, and even less could boast having accurately attuned themselves to the finer aspects of a soul’s energy, to the emotions that clouded an aura. Such a useful skill to have, when you no longer held the ability to read a face. Sometimes, only sometimes, he could swear he even felt a soul’s intentions, too. He knew to others, the man before him was a closed book, and always had been, but to him… there was much to read, of Mr Spears. At the moment, it was bitter resignation, accompanied by a faint, very faint, dip in faithfulness. He was disappointed, despite his having prepared for this possibility. Undertaker didn’t consider himself any sort of hero, and he very much disliked being put on a pedestal of purity and reliability. Those were not words that described him. He enjoyed being recognised for accomplishment where recognition was due, and he often caught himself slipping into proud condescension towards those who did not heed his advice (it was very good advice), but he was not the hero figure William’s attitude of reverence alluded to. Whether he was glad to have perhaps chipped away a part of that attitude, though, was something else altogether. Depended what came of it, really…

All said, he wasn’t going back to the Association office blocks. He’d be right to do an extra night of field in return for rejecting the preparatory one, but he wasn’t going to bring it up if Will wasn’t. Instead, he let things stay as is, cordially agreeing to William’s schedule and allowing the man to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a little while, I won't be updating this fic as regularly as I had hoped (ebb and flow of inspiration combined with real world responsibilities). I'd meant for this chapter to be longer (it feels terribly short) and to include the next lot of scenes, but I thought it would be best not to keep anyone waiting any further. Checked over the continuity of the anime so I could clarify a couple of things in this chapter, and make sure the next chapter goes smoothly. Next chapter should be the last one constrained by the canon timeline and interactions, with the scenes I'd intended for this chapter, and then I'll have my base for the main plot all set and out of the way.
> 
> Also: I don't have a beta reader, and I don't always word things in a way that's easy to understand/my phrasing can be a bit awkward, so if anybody spots any errors or a line that doesn't make sense, I'd be very, VERY happy to hear about it. If you can see a problem, I have to know so I can fix it <3


	3. Re: Re: Rerecruited

There were few boats that would make their way into the London harbour that night, all others sensibly deterred by the fire ashore that even he could see from the vantage point of the passengers. Undertaker knew this because he had made his way onto the singular approaching boat that would dare to make port, done under the guidance of the files William had given him; Ciel Phantomhive would arrive on this vessel, and he was determined to have one last conversation with the boy. He had no intention to interfere, no, not his place, and he’d assured William he would not. But there was nothing said that he couldn’t warn the child one last time, indirectly.

Once the mortician made his way onto the ship, he found that Phantomhive was lurking amongst the supply crates, butler nowhere to be seen. He let the boy have at his jar of biscuits, but not before playing with him a little. It was a bit childish, to offer something and then pull it out of reach, but he had found it was the small things that made life worthwhile. The child may have looked like his father, and just the same as Vincent walked purposefully to his own demise despite Undertaker's warning, but the two were so very different as well… Where Vincent would have responded positively and in good fun, this child became irritated. Much like that William, in fact. Regardless, it was funny to see the boy fall for the feint offer.

“I got roped in by that fault-finder, Will or whatever his name is..." he explained, not having been asked. “Said they were short-handed in London, brought me on in exchange for m’ library fines gettin’ pardoned.”

“London?” Ciel paused his eating with a swallow, interest piqued.

So Undertaker revealed the information about the mass reaping that was to occur that night, and was interrupted from further conversation by a shout from above deck. He could not smell the smoke or feel the heat from down here, but he could feel an impenetrable sense of panic and despair coming from the direction of the city. It had begun, and his first shift was set to start quite soon. He would have to make his way into the fray and temporarily retake his mantle of ‘legend’. Really, staying down here in the cargo store of the boat was a much better prospective. The vessel creaked back and forth on the waves, the air and crates under deck already holding a slight musty tinge from the short journey across the English Channel and the weathered condition of the vessel. It was a short journey indeed, but this was not a high-class ship, nor was this a place for passengers to frequent and judge. No, the air here was thick with the layers of old sea salt permeating the wood. The boy before him, starved, alone, and desperate, had certainly fallen from the position of grace he was gifted by birthright. Title or no, he was falling still. A pathetic, dull end, which he had brought on himself in naivete and pride. The contract and that demon brought nothing but sorrow to the small noble, sorrow that the boy was too foolish to reject on his own.

Undertaker could feel the contract was terse, broken in a sense, as the aura around the Phantomhive had changed to reflect that, and perhaps... the boy might listen, if informed of the danger he faced. When Undertaker noted the shout from those above, the boy quickly ran off to investigate, and Undertaker slowly followed after, not in any particular rush. He could not see well, or far, but the blaze was still clearly visible, engulfing the shore as far as one might look. He whistled; this really was quite impressive. He had taken his most valuable possessions, storing them in supernaturally in much the same way as he would his scythe, or the exotic Japanese Buddhist’s sotoba he was so fond of (and would spend the time to carve himself). It really was time for him to leave, and he told the Earl thus after noting his own interest in the fire aloud. This small meeting would have to be enough in the end after all, he’d not the time to give this child a lecture like he’d done after that funeral, and he knew it would not really make a difference. The soul of Ciel Phantomhive was already forfeit, were the Earl to die tonight, after a week, after a century...

His ever-present smile belied his encroaching disappointment. A hopeless case, which he somehow still could not keep his mind and heart from. One would think after this many a century, he would learn to stay away from such things, but it was exactly these cases of intermingled dread and anticipation that kept him feeling alive. Tragedy and comedy, both served to keep his interest in the world alive with his immortal body, and that was what truly counted. Surely, that was it…

The young noble called out to stop him, however. Why had he come here?

“You and I have our share of history together, don’t we? In light’ve that fact, I thought I’d give you fair warning,” he pause in his stride and replied, deciding that even if he didn't have time for lengthy advice, he'd take a shot at it after all. “My little Earl… before much longer, you’ll die.”

Just as he was asked what he meant by that, a woman nearby was overcome by grief at the scene laid out before them, her wail distracting Phantomhive just that second long enough that he might slip away, and port to London where he was required. Retired or not, he still had to clock in on time. Lest William notice his absence.

In the chaos of the London streets, he allowed himself a moment aside to compose himself, smile faltering. The son of his dear friend Vincent was fated to die this night, having made just the same mistake as his ancestors had, forcing himself headlong into his own demise. He would not listen to the warning of death, Undertaker knew this well. Even if he was to remain parted from that demon, giving up his silly revenge, it was too late. The cries of the city’s citizens surrounded him, and the acrid smoke from the flames was thick in the air - now was not the time to be distracted by sentiment and regret for a cause he could not help. Beyond the distress of the living, too, he could feel something else. Another force at work, entwined with the presence of the dead. The nature of this fire was indeed unnatural, Spears had been right. And nearby… yes, quite near to him was that redheaded reaper. Struggling, it seemed, and he didn’t need any heightened senses to see that. Hear it, rather. How obnoxiously loud. Own scythe materialised and in hand, he made his way from his alley niche to settle on the front steps of a burning home. There he was, yes, complaining vocally about the workload and how nothing seemed to be making any difference. As far as the mortician was concerned it was very easy to see why that was so. This reaper needed new glasses, perhaps, the hearts being drained from the blaze’s victims were as clear as day.

“I s’pose wasted effort is the privilege of youth, innit?” he interjected against the other’s complaints after a few moments of watching, a biscuit held between his teeth as he spoke.

“What do you mean, ‘wasted’!?” came the reply, and Undertaker was quite amused that his sudden presence was simply accepted this time, unlike the little library debacle.

“You see all th’ black matter?” he pointed out calmly. “That’s made up of the joy and agony that belonged to the dead,” he continued. “Y’see, it’s what humans call the heart. The hearts’ve been extracted from their souls. Can hardly be called souls now. I doubt ve~ry much that they can be stored in the Library anymore…” he finished explaining, basking in Sutcliff's confusion.

“But why? Why should something like a heart matter?” Grelle questioned dismissively, not quite seeking an answer, and then stopped short after a snip of his scythe. “I don’t understand, the record’s blank!?”

He snorted, and the redhead rounded on him in search of an answer. He would have tried to explain again, were he not interrupted by a familiar presence. Hell~o, Billy.

“So, someone’s plundering souls,” came the rather nasal voice of the London supervisor, and the redhead immediately turned away from him to greet the man with a surprised ‘Will!’.

“While the taking of souls _is_ necessary,” William continued, and Undertaker noted he had brought with him a small group of helpers, all equally unremarkable men. “It is the province of reapers. On just this one occasion, I’m willing to take on unpaid overtime,” he concluded, and Undertaker had to keep himself from snorting. How noble, truly. It wasn’t as if the man had a choice regardless. That was their entire existence as reapers, was it not? Unpaid overtime on their lives for all eternity. He was interrupted from his moment of scorn when William began to speak again, tone disdainful.

“ _Here,_ Grelle Sutcliff,” he sneered, and procured his subordinate’s original scythe, which he tossed towards the redhead.

“Huh-! Hahahhh! Tonight’ll be _deadly_!” the collections officer rejoiced, swinging the weapon with a mechanical roar as it was brought to life. Undertaker had enough experience with the results of that chainsaw to know the damage it could do; he had stitched the young Earl’s aunt back together for her grand finale, after all. Ignoring the miniature celebration caused by the reunion of what may have been the two noisiest things in London, William resumed speaking.

“You are all expected to take out a goodly number,” he addressed them all. “And any after-party you may have will be written off as a business expense,” he concluded, adjusting his glasses. That was certainly a way to get the men motivated, Undertaker mused. Whatever worked within reason to get things done, it seemed. ‘Course, if even _he_ was here then anything that might improve efficiency must already be being employed. Spears seemed weary already, perhaps from the preparations the day before. He’d slept, though, the mortician was sure. He must have.

“S’pose you’ve already realised we’ve got t’break the link between these bodies and whatever’s going on up on that bridge, then?” the mortician asked, getting to his feet and dusting off the front of his robes. Sutcliff settled down, waiting for instruction from William.

“Yes, if we break the link then the entire process should collapse. We need not confront the source of the disturbance ourselves,” Spears said, glancing towards the bridge with open distaste. Undertaker could sense it, and knew all the others ought to be able to as well; the powerful aura being emitted by a clash of Heaven and Hell. That rogue angel and the Earl’s collared demon, no doubt, judging by where the boy was slated to die. “To work, all of you!” William ordered, and without further ado began trimming at the stolen hearts.

Undertaker worked swiftly, targeting the clusters where he would be most needed and would be the most efficient. Where William’s quite modern scythe was made for precision, his own was made for mass efficiency. The weight of it in his hands, the familiar, smooth pendulum movement of its swings, the faint whistle it made as it glided through the air. It was like embracing an old friend, soothing and nostalgic. He hated playing puppet for the Dispatch superiors, repressing his desires and ignoring his own humanity, but oh how fond he was of this scythe. Beautiful, balanced, it was the pinnacle of scythe design as far as Undertaker was concerned. The roar of the chainsaw had no grace, and he wasn’t sure he could stand the small blade of William’s branch trimmer model. Elsewhere in the city other teams were working; he could feel their combined efforts in the gradual weakening of the aura surrounding the half-built bridge. Having covered the bodies where they started, they each spread out in different directions, following the death list whilst covering as much ground as possible in the time they had. They would have to go back and forth in some parts, as the all-consuming chaos of the fire would inevitably cause people to flee back into the fray, and some would die much later than others. Clearing an area did not mean it would stay clear as the bodies piled up in multitudes, and many others lost their homes, possessions, and all else that would have kept them alive during the coming months of restoration. This was the sort of thing they would see come doomsday, Undertaker reasoned, steady in his belief that the world as they knew it would end by fire when such a thing was to happen. Everything came to an end, humanity would not last forever. As the bond between the deceased and the angel’s powers had finally shattered he had strayed from everyone in the original group, free to reap at will. He laughed; it felt good to stop another supernatural being from manipulating human souls. That was the only part that truly mattered, in his opinion. Bodies, leftover records, it didn’t matter what happened to them. Spare parts was all they were.

The hours ticked by, the souls he had collected stacking up within his scythe. He had passed a couple of the reapers he had started with as their paths crossed over, but hadn’t yet seen the ex-Ripper or their dull-toned employer. It was in the early hour of the morning when he could see relief starting in sections of the city; people rushing to put out the fire with whatever water they could, searching for survivors and passing out food. A valiant effort, but not one that would relieve the reapers of their work. No matter how many pieces of fancy bread were handed out, they would not heal the critical burns which had left a large portion of the city’s people in declining conditions. He would be handling some of those people he was currently passing tomorrow night, he knew. His shift was nearing its end when he finally saw William again, standing atop a charred building and surveying the area around with a critical eye. Undertaker jumped from his position on the ground to join him, and though the supervisor did not look to acknowledge his presence, he let out a heavy sigh once the retiree had drawn close behind him. He closed the ledger he’d been holding open, dematerialising it and dropping his hands to his side.

“What a mess, honestly…” William complained, finally turning to face his new companion. “You have a break between reaps?” he asked, adjusting his glasses with the tip of his scythe. The man was becoming exhausted, the mortician could tell. Perhaps he had not slept well in the hours before.

“Short one, yeah,” he admitted. That was the thing about these extended reapings. You needed all hands available for the most intense times, but there was always that ebb and flow of deaths which left some hours quieter than others before the rate of the deceased picked up again. His shop would be ve~ry busy once he was able to return to it. The fire had indeed blazed through East End, but as it had a supernatural cause he was quite sure it would not have damaged the structure. He would be able to return to business as usual immediately, and hadn’t needed to remove his valuables; he kept his shop well sealed and protected against this sort of preternatural damage. That’s what the Eastern charms were for – and they worked quite well, in fact.

“I also had a short gap, but I’ll have to resume soon,” William said, his eyes drawn for a moment to a pair of huddled bodies in the alley beside them. Undertaker had already been aware they were there, as he could feel their life force draining when he had gotten close to the street. He ignored them, setting the head of his scythe against the roof beneath them and leaning forward against the handle, both hands clasped around the shaft just underneath his chin, which he set atop one of his left wrist. The scythe was actually taller than he was, so there was no way he could have rested his chin against the end of it, but this was just fine.

“Lookin’ forward to clocking out?” he snickered, smiling airily at the man.

William let a sharp breath out of his nose – “Eventually,” he replied, the exhaustion Undertaker had noticed before seeping into his tone. “I’ve still a great deal of work to do after this before tomorrow night’s shift begins. There is _always_ paperwork to be done, and I am often the only one who bothers to do it properly,” he drawled bitterly, looking towards the skyline.

“…You _are_ going to clock out, yeah?” the mortician asked, brows drawing together in concern beneath his hair. How long had Will been awake already, anyway? When the other didn’t answer, Undertaker hummed lightly under his breath, standing (semi) straight again. “…There’s an easy solution if you’re getting too overworked, you know,” he removed a hand from his scythe to gesture at himself, smile now close-lipped. “A good part of making your way through life is knowin' when to quit.”

William regarded him for a moment, face impassive and aura unwavering.

“No,” he said coldly. “Trying to escape your problems only makes them worse. With all due respect, I intend to see out my service to Dispatch fully. I will earn my redemption, and _then_ I will be able to relax as you do.”

Undertaker bit back a ‘no you won’t, you’d be dead’, frowning. He had no faith in ‘redemption’, he’d never seen anyone achieve it in all his years. You deserted or you were killed, you never got out of this hellish rut otherwise. He’d tried it, he’d tried remaining faithful to the system. It didn’t work. Spears was going to run himself into the ground like this, he was sure of it. And he didn’t want to see what happened when that finally came to be. He himself was now _enjoying_ this unreasonable extension to his lifespan, and he regretted all that time he’d spent cramped in a stark, grey office for nothing. Some day, he was sure William would come to regret it too… Whenever that day might be. Every reaper would, if they didn’t get killed first.

William stepped away, scythe extending to call forth the records of the two nearby. “Make sure you remember to log all the souls you’ve collected with Dispatch, when your shift is over,” he said coolly, and Undertaker lifted his own scythe to rest it right-side up on his shoulder once more.

“Will do,” he said lowly, pulling the brim of his hat down snugly and leaving the other be, moving on in the direction of his next reap. Knowingly striding forward towards your own sorrow… truly… how pitiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you for 100 hits~! I know this is a rare pair, and I'm so happy to have gotten such a positive response with just the first two chapters. This also marks the end of the canon framework, and all events from here on will be my own! Second, Thank you to Twilightknight17 for taking up the role of beta, and thank you for the corrections on this chapter.
> 
> When I was writing this chapter, though, to make sure I was precise with the dialogue, I drew from my usual fansub (Hi10), the official subs, and the English dub. And I noticed something that the fansubs had gotten wrong (it was a very easy mistake to make. I didn't pick up on it myself, and now I feel a bit silly). It makes sense, considering there's out-of-direct-canon dialogue that gets posted by a Japanese Undertaker character bot (script that randomly posts canon lines that it's been given) on twitter which refer to William having a little letter sending debacle with Undertaker over his overdue book fines. I was wondering where those came from and why. They make sense now. So the previous two chapters have been edited to reflect that, though it's only a minor change, that William also offers to waive UT's fines and UT accepts. It's not a large thing in the long run and you don't need to reread, you're not going mad, but it's happened. The dialogue I'm using in the canon scenes, if anyone is very familiar with any of those, IS a little bit different, because like I said I was pulling from three sources to get the best wording and make sure things were accurate. I won't be referencing the letter sending dialogue in the fic, though, because it wasn't in the anime itself.
> 
> Lastly I just want to say the dub made me laugh, because where in the original Japanese Will is called fussy/a fault-finder, the dub changed it to "That tiny whiny Will bloke". I didn't include that line in this chapter because I'd rather Japanese-accurate, but I wanted to make note of it anyway lol.


	4. Dead Tired

His shift over and the souls he had gathered forfeited to Dispatch, Undertaker had been able to return to his shop. As he'd thought, it remained untouched by the flames, and once inside with the front door locked (no human would begrudge even the mortuary for having temporarily closed in light of the massive destruction), he made his way through the back door and upstairs to his living quarters. They were small, and he didn't imagine they were arranged the most pleasing they could visually be, but he could make his way around with ease and knew where everything he wanted was. Valuables stowed back where he always kept them, he settled on biscuits for dinner; he didn't have the energy left to cook, and they were already readily available. They were never the only thing he'd eat, but sometimes if he lost track of time, or he was simply too tired, he would skip a proper meal. He didn't have any leftovers that night, though he had some plain ingredients, so he would just... have a real meal later. When he felt like cooking.

This left him slouched on his threadbare lounge, urn of biscuits set in his lap. His scythe was rightfully his, his library fines waived, and... the last of the Phantomhives was dead. Vincent's son... He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said the boy and he had history together. Vincent was his most treasured friend; he'd spent many an evening or a midday at the Earl's, for purely social reasons. Thus, he had seen the child grow up. The little Phantomhive... He remembered, once, he had playfully taken the strawberry from atop a slice of cake that belonged to the boy, and (perhaps rightfully) ended up with sticky little fingers yanking his hair. Vincent hadn't helped a bit; he just laughed at the mortician's self-inflicted woe. The child, Ciel... He'd been so charming, back then. A little mirror of his father, just as unnaturally charismatic. Undertaker sighed, sinking deeper into the lounge, nails tracing the top of the ceramic urn. His chest hurt, deeply. Humans were so... fickle, so _stupid_. The young Earl had returned, after Vincent had died. He had returned, but not really. He was not the same. All business, always business, no time for tea... or angry hair pulling. Vincent had such a darling sense of humour; so had Cloudia, and so might Ciel have had, if he was not so…

It was wretched, a wretched situation full of wretched emotions; his eyes had begun to prickle and burn with the threat of tears. The Phantomhives were no more, at the hands of a demon, vanished with the child who had not allowed himself to heal and move on. Undertaker had been avoiding the thought all night, but now alone, he could dwell. That was the problem with being a reaper. You could not allow yourself to feel, allow yourself to dwell. It was lonely. It was crushing. It was pointless. But as a deserter, his lifespan now vastly outpaced that of his neighbours, his friends, any whom he might grow to love. After this fire, too, regular faces from the neighbourhood would have disappeared. Women, men, children. Those he might have had lunch with, pleasant chats at the market with, seen daily as they went about their business on the street and made their living in East End... how many would he not see again? How many had disappeared just the same as the Phantomhives?

He was crying now, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and wetting his clothes in small patches as they fell. He didn't want to eat. He was done with the biscuits. His stomach churned and his heart ached. All that time... all those memories... playful hours at the Phantomhive manor, trading taunts with Vincent's German dog, idle days... No more. No more of those, not with the Phantomhives. And Vincent's death, not even a body left that he could bury, give proper send off to... Now Ciel... Would they retrieve the body of the Earl? Might he give the child a respectful burial? Who knew…

He shifted in his seat, slowly pulling himself to his feet and setting the bone-shaped treats away. He would sleep, now, and come this evening... he would return to reaping for that night, as he'd promised William. To have a human heart was a curse, he thought, but he knew it was a far worse fate to feel nothing at all. Undertaker cleaned his teeth briefly, then moved to his bedroom and reclined on the bed as he began the process of removing his boots. Impractical as they were, he was incredibly fond of them, and he set them beside his bed once they were off. He removed his lockets, hat, and sash, but stopped there. He hadn't the mood to get changed fully, and allowed himself to sink into the blankets, burying his face in the pillows. His tears had not stopped, but despite knowing the pillow would soon be uncomfortably wet he kept his face down. He could not allow himself this during his next shift, and for now, he would mourn.   
  
-   
  
The mortician would meet with the manager the next evening, posture chipper and usual smile fixed firmly in place. Getting ready in time had been a chore, as he hadn't worked a night shift in a long, long time, and in addition to poor, fitful sleep, all... fifty or so...? inches of his hair had become snarled and tangled. Usually, he would put his hair in a plait or something like that to prevent this exact problem, but as he hadn't had the care to... he had spent a great deal of time brushing it all out once he had awoken. Sleeping in one's day clothes was a terrible idea as well, he hadn't removed his necklaces and they'd ended up indenting little red marks onto his face and neck as he'd slept. And his trousers, too... he'd had pins and needles up an entire leg. Never again, he thought as he changed into a fresh set of robes, knowing that one day he would indeed make these same mistakes again anyway.

William was waiting for him when he arrived, and if Undertaker had thought his  own rest was bad, well. Spears seemed as if he hadn't had so much as a 10 minute nap. Considering the workload this sort of mass reaping entailed, perhaps he hadn't. Once you knew how, and you had your own pace to it, getting the souls and reviewing lives was the easy part of the job. The painful bit was always the paperwork. Undertaker was sure the higher-ups made the forms intentionally roundabout, trivial, and repetitive just to keep them all doing as much useless time-wasting work as possible. And William was the branch manager, a job he knew that he himself couldn't have sat through a day of. The highest he had gotten was supervising officer, which counted as a management level job of a sort. It got him the perks without the responsibility, was the point. They'd asked him to take higher level jobs, but he'd always refused. And this tired man standing before him was showcasing exactly the reason why.

"Good evening, sir. We will be working as partners, for this shift," William said dully, then continued to speak with little pause. "Last night was singular due to the sheer spread, but tonight we can afford for some small groups for the few large reaps left. Have you looked at your allotment for tonight's list?" he asked. Glory, William seemed like he was ready to collapse, and they hadn't even started yet. Granted, reapers could handle a bit longer than humans could without having basic needs met before they really crashed, but that didn't mean their performance didn't suffer just the same.

"Not yet. You manage to clock out at a goodly hour last night?" Undertaker asked in return. He couldn't help but be curious just how much sleep Spears had gotten. 

The manager sighed before he replied.

"You should. We'll separate for the first couple of hours and then meet at the corner of Whitechapel and Brick. There's a cave-in we'll need to see to; you'll see the exact times on your roster," William answered, not a word uttered to the question of his last shift's end. Rude.

"Got it," he said anyway, ignoring that he'd been ignored. For a man who got his knickers in a twist over others not being respectful, he really wasn't all that good at it himself. There was silence a moment, and he could tell the manager was discreetly sizing him up for whatever reason.

"That's all, then," William broke the pause. "Thank you for all your help; I will be on my way," he said as he bowed his head slightly, then turned on his heel and strode away at a steady pace.

The mortician didn't try and stop him, didn't say goodbye, just let him go. He'd just been ignored and then thanked within the same minute; it was like social whiplash talking to this... ice-cube of a man. Lemon man, he'd thought of him recently, but maybe it was bit more 'ice' than 'lemon'... lemon ice? That sounded right. That just made him think of yellow snow, though, which while funny to compare someone so bitter to (and he did snicker), he didn't want to get stuck thinking about, so he dropped that train of thought entirely.

Whitechapel and Brick... He summoned his personal files and flipped through this evening's roster. Not half as bad as last night, but there was definitely a reason he was still here. He still wanted to know how much sleep Spears had gotten, but that would have to wait. Another night of reaping lay ahead of him, and he hoisted his scythe up to rest in its familiar place against his shoulder, leaving in the opposite direction of the black-haired reaper.

William didn't seem any better off than he'd been earlier, when they finally met up once again. His responses were lagging quite distinctly, and Undertaker hoped that wasn't going to interfere with their work. However much sleep the man had had recently, it clearly wasn't enough. A single all-nighter wouldn't do it, though... they were reapers, after all. In any case, William was waiting for him just where he'd said he would, where the two streets joined. The amount of damage that had been done to different buildings varied wildly, with the homes of the upper class having come away the best. Those of the lower class, made from cheap materials, quickly, on poor foundation, those had suffered most. That was the way things went, the poorest would suffer and the richest would get away without a scratch. London was a mess, and not just because of the fire. It had always been a mess.

They were to see to a most unfortunate case: a group of humans had successfully sheltered themselves from the worst of the fire, down in the cellar of a house. But the foundations, the building materials, the building plan, none of that had ever been intended to withstand such literally hellish flame. There weren't too many collapsed buildings following the fire. Ones that had been burnt out and lost their roofs as a result, yes, those were common enough and could be seen here and there, but this kind of absolute collapse was rare. London houses were more oft than not made of bricks, after all. It only took one unfortunately designed part of a home to compromise the entire structure, however, and that was the case here. Rescue efforts were being made about the city, but they had not yet reached this district, so close to his own shop.

This was the sort of case where William's scythe was most convenient, he noted. He could do what he needed to, but that long range precision could get where his own could not without getting himself in a risky position as well. If he were younger and green, it would be a real problem of a reap. William could probably deal with a body at the bottom of a lake without getting so much as his cuffs damp. Undertaker, on the other hand? He'd have to swim for it. This wasn't a lake though, all he had to deal with was rubble. Death scythe could get through that easily enough, and without leaving a scratch to tell he'd been there. Reapers were not allowed to leave marks on their customers; it was a foolish mistake that said you were not able to properly handle your scythe and had not mastered basic techniques. Some did anyway, like that red reaper. He could always tell when a death scythe had nicked one of his customers. It was most often in cases where the cause of death was due to wounds already; reapers would think they could get away with being a bit less precise. They couldn't. He always knew.

In any case, just as they weren't allowed to leave marks on the customers, they also weren't meant to leave marks on the scene of death. From his death list and the souls he sensed he could tell which he would be taking and which William would be dealing with, based solely on the capabilities of their scythes. What was left of the building gave a loud groan, and it collapsed in on itself to a cacophony of screams from inside; time to get to work.

William's response was delayed, slightly, but he got to the job nonetheless, picking off each deeply buried soul as the time came. He kept checking and re-checking the death list, making sure he wasn't about to make a mistake. When the humans had their hearts stolen by the angel, he was mostly fine, but the older reaper knew the manager was struggling; anybody would be able to see that. Finishing off a surface area collection, he interrupted the other man.

"Forgive me for bein' nosy, but... just how short-staffed are we nowadays?" he asked lightly. It had been bad when he was in service, and he didn't expect it had changed any, but if William wouldn't answer directly when he'd clocked out, getting to the issue in a more subtle way might be best. It wasn't as if he was worried for Spears specifically, just that it was overall concerning if reapers were being overworked to this point.

"Very, as much as ever and then some," William replied after a brief pause to process the question. "Honestly, I don't understand what the higher ups are thinking. They refuse to alter employee allocations despite areas such as London becoming so unreasonably busy as humans industrialise themselves, and of course that means I have to pick up the slack despite not even being a field officer. I mean good grief-" He began to complain in earnest, but the mortician already had the information he needed to be sure this fatigue was the fault of Dispatch and not simply the man's personal habits. When there was an opening to do so, he spoke again.

"Mm, glad I don't have to do any overtime nowadays," he grinned, and hopefully that might…

William made a noise of discontent, somewhere between a 'tch' and an 'eugh'.

"During this reap, I understand the necessity of overtime with the few we have staffed, but I've been stuck in nonstop work for the past..." he trailed off, leaving Undertaker hanging for the simple answer he'd wanted in the first place. "Honestly, if the staffing branch could just get themselves in order, for once..." he finished, sneering, then checked his book yet again before making a very purposeful and displeased jab at the next due soul. Conversation over.

Undertaker hummed lightly to himself, underneath his amiable facade immensely frustrated at having technically gained an answer but still having no precise information to work with. For the past  what  have you been stuck working,  Billy? Hours? Days? Weeks? Which was it? Undertaker felt rather like swearing at the lack of a proper answer; this was getting frustrating. The last of the Phantomhives was dead, he was stuck on graveyard shift reaping duty again for the first time in years, and this damned whiny icicle wouldn't answer his only real question. Whatever; it didn't really matter. If William wanted to complain all day and then conceal any real problems he had then that was his issue, not Undertaker's.

So maybe he  was worried for Spears. It wasn't unnatural to be concerned for a former customer, after all. But he'd already helped with the fire, wasn't that enough? Did he really have to go through this whole ordeal of giving advice and being ignored yet again, by a man who had never had  any sense of humour? Yes, said that little voice that was governed by his heart. Yes, he did. His taste in hopeless cases was getting worse, it seemed. At least Ciel Phantomhive had a chance left of healing if he had only let himself. This was a full grown man, with all his negatives and shortcomings practically set in stone. Of course, as reapers, they had all the time in the world… And compared to himself, who had only deserted recently, William was quite young yet. Well… he could try and steer the man onto a more manageable route, at least. It was an attractive prospect, having another reaper to see things as he did, or at least a little more than the rest. William respected him, was in management, there was quite a bit of inside information he could glean from that, yes. It wasn't so unreasonable to want to fuss with this man after all, surely… yes, he'd play this game a bit and see what good came of it.

It wasn't as if he had much else to do, now that once and for all the Phantomhives were…

The last due soul was his to claim, and then they were done, themselves due to return to Dispatch, turn over the souls, and clock out. But with what he could tell of William's run of luck, it wouldn't be so simple for the other man. The shortest amount of rest could help, in the long run.

“You have any last souls after this?” he queried brightly.

“No, this is my last for the evening…” William replied slowly, putting his ledger away.

“Then, there's no rush, ri~ght?” Undertaker grinned. “I'm not so used to reaping work anymore, been a real while since I've had at this properly. Mind sitting with me a bit before we port in?” he continued, tilting his head sweetly.   
William paused, considering it very carefully. This was a big issue for someone who was over-tired, he knew, as soon as the manager stopped, he'd likely be stopped for good and lose his working momentum. Which was exactly what the mortician was hoping for. If William couldn't start working again, he would be forced to clock out, and the mortician wouldn't feel half so guilty for skipping out on the desk work- ooh, he did feel a bit guilty for that after all… That was probably the reason this was so frustrating…

“I suppose-” he started, cutting himself off with an annoyed sigh. “That is, if we must. Your help has been invaluable, truly.”   
Undertaker laughed, putting his scythe away and snaking an arm around the other’s shoulder. William stiffened slightly in surprise, but did not object, eyeing him warily.

“My shop's nearby, it'd be more comfortable there,” he smiled, setting the pace immediately and steering the manager's movements. It certainly  would be more comfortable there; there were no pitiable survivors moaning and wailing in his establishment, that was certain. Well, not yet. That would come soon, however. The day after tomorrow, most likely, he'd have to get to work helping the mortal side of the cleanup. For now, that wasn't an issue and he encouraged William to take a seat as soon as they were in the front door. Once sat, however, William immediately checked his pocket watch, and Undertaker couldn't help but frown a moment at the man's obvious impatience. He procured his urn of bone shaped funeral biscuits and passed it to William before setting down beside him.

“I'd offer tea to go with, but I'm all out and there won't be anything that can be done about that for a while after this fire, right?” he lied. He had tea, but he knew that it might help the other wake up rather than wind down - regular black tea before bed was a terrible idea. He reached over and took a biscuit from the urn. He was nearly all out of these, though, he'd have to make a fresh batch after he'd gotten some sleep himself.

“Do you have enough food to last until the shops get back in order?” William asked, concerned. It was a fair enough worry, trade would take a few days to get back on its feet, and there'd be a few London residents who'd have to go without in the meantime.

“Aw nah, I'll be right, I knew this was comin’ thanks to you. Just didn't think I needed t’ stock up on tea is all,” he explained. It was mostly true, except the tea bit, so it didn't really count as a lie anymore. Sort of.

William nodded, taking a biscuit from the urn and hesitantly taking a bite. He ate slowly, looking away from the mortician in apparent embarrassment when his stomach complained aloud at the excruciating snail pace.

“Skipped lunch, mm?” Undertaker smiled. “You can have the rest, I've gotta make more anyway. Go on, have them, they're yours.”

“Thank you,” William replied quietly. “I didn’t realise I was this hungry, I simply… lost track.”   
Undertaker waved it off with a smile, pleased that William's eating pace increased afterwards. Food would give you an energy boost, sure, but it was a slow burn compared to the caffeine of tea or coffee, and a full stomach facilitated a good night's rest. It seemed William had not been eating regularly either, in this case, which couldn't have been helping his work performance out there…

“When's your next day off?” he asked next. They all got days to themselves, even under the oppressive regime of Dispatch, else none of them would be able to function past the first year.

“Er…” William frowned, thinking it over. “I have Sundays off,” he replied, having taken longer than he should have to come out with such a basic detail. He'd forgotten the day of the week, then, hah. “I don't usually work nights, either, so…”

“That'd be the day after, ah, today, not tomorrow,” Undertaker hummed. “Tomorrow. It's already Saturday, innit, has been for a few hours…”

William made a small sound of agreement, mouth preoccupied with biscuit and preventing him from giving a proper response.

“Yes,” he said once he'd swallowed. “Tonight was my last rostered shift for this week, though I've still some papers to complete before I can clock out. I don't mean to rush you, sir, but are you ready to leave yet?”

Undertaker made a noise in the back of his throat, as if he was actually seriously considering it, then shook his head.

“I'd like t’ sit a bit longer. Actually, could I have a look at your scythe, Will? Haven't seen that model used before, dunno if it came out after I left or what, but…”

William handed it over without hesitation, and Undertaker briefly considered that it would be very easy for him to kill such a trusting man. Not that he wanted to, but that was certainly a possibility. Not that Spears had any reason to not trust him, really, but… he wasn't an upstanding officer of Dispatch any more. The manager set aside the now empty urn of biscuits as the elder examined the (actually really unremarkable) scythe, waiting blankly for it to be returned. When Undertaker had sat beside him, he'd habitually sat as close as possible - they were shoulder to shoulder - despite there being plenty of room in the shop and a handful of other coffins he could have sat on. This wasn't something he had done because it was William, it was habit through and through; he'd  made it his habit to stand or sit or gesture uncomfortably close to others so that now when he was not intentionally positioning himself anywhere he automatically chose to insert himself into a companion's personal space. He wasn't going to try any of those tricks on this man anyway; William knew from the start who he really was and had been, so there was no chance he'd be able to faze him with basic things like that. Reapers had strong stomachs, they had to, and William did not display the usual discomfort at his being so close. Surprise, nervousness, but no… fear. Horrifically boring. William wouldn't buy his full old man act now even if he really tried to sell it. Worse was that William had no regard for his wanting to maintain that act, just spouting off about his past ‘accomplishments’ in the middle of the Library. Not that William really knew he did it on purpose, but, ahh… If he hadn't been such an openly exemplary reaper when he'd had the chance, none of this would be a problem now.

William's scythe was indeed unremarkable in build; the most fantastic part was that it extended, but he didn't need to examine it to understand how that happened and why. Still, Undertaker looked it over. More interesting was how thoroughly well-kept it was. Spears was just as focused on being exemplary as he'd once been, it seemed. It was a good chance to zone out for a while and think on other things, was what it really was. William was leaning on him slightly now, but he paid it no mind; they were already sitting closely to begin with and he usually didn't shy away from physical contact. He was quite liking the silent company, actually, it was very comfortable to sit with another and let his mind wander elsewhere, even if the company was someone he hadn't much affection for. The next batch of biscuits… bones again of course, but perhaps he'd try some skull shapes this time… and with the ingredients he had, it might be best to cook a stew, which would last him quite the while until he could get more fresh food from the markets... and he'd need to start getting a lot of coffins together. A lot.

It occurred to him then, after he had spent some time taking mental stock of his kitchen inventory and his oncoming business prospects, that William was quite heavy. No doubt with his figure and their profession it was muscle, and his height would add some, but compared to the (self-admittedly a bit skeletal) mortician he was. He definitely wasn’t the heaviest man Undertaker had dealt with, no, but he was estimating William was somewhere in the 175-ish pound range from what he was feeling right now. Which was incredibly heavy, in fact, for a man who should have been sitting up straight and not using Undertaker as a support. He shouldn't have been feeling any weight at all. It was at this point that Undertaker realised, awkwardly holding his companion's scythe aloft, that he had made what was now a very difficult to handle oversight in inviting such an overworked man to take an impromptu rest in his shop. He hadn't planned for this in the least, he'd just hoped to momentarily distract the man from his working streak, and now he was unsure what exactly he should do next.

William T. Spears was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 175lb is about 80kg. I based Will's weight off a guy I used to know in highschool who was about the same height and build and played basketball, I think he was actually 85kg. He was the heaviest guy in our year, I think.
> 
> This fic might get a lot more existential for our leading pair than I'd originally planned. Beware.


End file.
